Pain was the first thing Yan Ling felt.
A dull, throbbing ache spread through his body, settling deep into his bones like something old and resentful. His head pounded, knees burned and even breathing felt like too much effort.
"…Damn it," he muttered weakly.
"What kind of nightmare comes with this much pain?"
He tried to move and instantly regretted it. A sharp agony shot up from his knees, forcing a hiss from his lips. Yan Ling groaned and let his head drop back again. His vision swimming.
Great. Even my dreams are sadistic now.
His mind was still foggy, tangled in half-remembered scenes and irritation that hadn't faded even in sleep.
That stupid novel.
War Prize.
He'd stayed up too late reading it, hoping—against his better judgment—that the ending would somehow redeem itself but It hadn't.
What kind of nonsense was that ending, anyway? Yan Ling scoffed inwardly.
"A general falling in love with the king who destroyed his country? Seriously?!" He whispered to himself.
Okay, fine. The king didn't personally burn the empire to the ground. He even ruled better afterward. But still—enemy was enemy. War was war.
What about the beginning?
The chains that constantly bound him like an animal, the humiliation he suffered just because he refused to submit, the pain that was inflicted upon him and the never-ending tortures that tried to break him bit by bit?!
And then—what? He just… forgot?
Forgot the blood that had been shed by his people and their suffering?
"Rubbish," Yan Ling thought bitterly. "Absolute rubbish."
He took a slow breath, intending to roll over and wake himself up but as he tried to do so, the surging pain shot up again, making him broke into cold sweat.
That was when something felt… wrong. Questions swarmed up inside his throbbing head.
Why could he feel the rough texture beneath his palms so clearly?
Why did the ache in his knees throb deeper the more he focused on it?
Why did the air smell so sharp—like metal, blood and smoke and something unpleasantly familiar?
Yan Ling's frown deepened.
Slowly and carefully, he forced his eyes open, staring in silence at the sky above him. It was utterly unfamiliar—certainly not the ceiling of his bedroom. And though he had always been fond of the open sky, there was something about this one that unsettled him, vast and eerie in a way that sent a quiet chill through his chest.
It was wide, pale, and endless, hemmed in by thick black clouds and looming thunderstorms, threatening to break apart at any moment and consume everything beneath it.
His breath hitched.
Confusion sharpened into unease as his vision cleared inch by inch.
Tattered banners fluttered in the distance. Broken weapons, torn robes and the unending pool of dismantled corpses littered the battlefield which was now stained in a deep shade of crimson.
Soaked into the earth beneath him was not water or colours but blood. Real blood of the warriors who fought bravely for their country's pride and safety, leaving nothing but their bodies behind.
Yan Ling's gaze dropped to himself. Strong, shiny armor of a general. Slightly torn robes. Calloused hands smeared red, holding the infamous sword, Tian Xing.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
"…No."
He stared at his knees which were bent and pressed hard against the ground. As he tried to lift his body, the pain flared again. It was sharper this time, like a cruel confirmation.
This wasn't a dream.
Yan Ling sucked in a shaky breath and forced himself harder this time in order to stand but only for the pain to explode through his legs while stealing the air from his lungs. He cried out softly before collapsing back down. Chains clanking loudly as his wrists were yanked painfully behind him.
Chains?
Yan Ling froze as his blood ran cold. He looked down slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. Heavy iron shackles bit into his wrists.
"No… no, no, no—"
The shattered pieces slammed together with ond horrifying clarity. This body...this position..this battlefield.
His mind screamed a single name.
War Prize.
The novel he had been reading before sleep.
The novel he had criticized, mocked, and dismissed as tragic nonsense. Somehow, he had transmigrated into it.
And the man kneeling here—Yan Ling swallowed hard, was no other than the defeated general of the fallen empire, ShenQi,
General Yan Ling himself.
The invincible general now defeated, captured and held as a rare prize of the crucial war.
His vision blurred.
"How…?" he whispered, voice trembling.
"Why…?" Questions flooded his mind faster than he could process them.
Am I dead?
If so, then how?
Did I die in my sleep?
Or is this something else entirely—something far worse?
Yan Ling clenched his fists helplessly against the chains with no answers, only the distant sound of soldiers laughing, celebrating their victory and savouring the fall of Shen Qi.
Footsteps crunched against scorched earth.
Reality pressed in from all sides, heavy and merciless. And in between all, Yan Ling forced himself to breathe, to think and to focus what should be done.
Okay. Calm down. If this followed the novel—His stomach twisted, then the worst part hadn't even begun yet.
The humiliation, interrogations and the thousand types of deathly tortures that marked the start of the general's downfall.
Yan Ling's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
No.
He tightened his jaw, eyes flashing with fear and determination.
He didn't know how or why he was here..but one thing was painfully clear.
If he didn't do something now…this body, this fate, this ending—would swallow him whole.
He slowly lifted his head watching ahead.
Across from him stood an army at rest—victorious, unhurried, cruel in their leisure. At the very front, seated upon a tall warhorse, was a young man clad in black battle armour darkened by blood, cloak torn at the edges, the insignia of Wei Bing's foremost general etched across his chest.
The current crown prince of Wei Bing and the future king of both nations,
Wei Li Feng.
The one who had stood opposite him throughout the war—anticipating his strategies, countering his formations, dismantling Shen Qi's defenses piece by piece with terrifying precision.
The man who had defeated the great general Yan Ling finally.
A man who understood war as intimately as he did.
His presence was sharp, honed, commanding in a way only someone long acquainted with the battlefield could be even though he was pretty young and if the novel was accurate—barely twenty one, but there was nothing youthful about his eyes.
They were sharp, scheming and unnervingly calm. Half of his hair was drawn into a high ponytail, the rest spilling freely down his back. Two fine braids from either side were woven into the tie, while a few loose curls brushed his face—an almost careless contrast to the sharp, calculating calm in his strikingly handsome features.
He's... mesmerizing, but with a black heart.
Wei Lifeng swung down from his horse in one smooth motion, boots crunching against the blood-soaked ground. Soldiers instinctively stepped back, forming a wide, respectful distance.
"Does General admit his defeat this time?" His voice travelled to Yan Ling before his steps.
Yan Ling's fingers trembled as they tightened around the sword still clutched in his grasp.
Tian Xing, the blade that had followed him through countless battles and the same blade meant to end his life.
With a sudden, desperate motion, Yan Ling twisted his wrist and drove the sword toward his own throat.
I will keep my dignity over my life anyway. This is my final resort.
Another sword flashed speedily like a snake before Tian Xing could even touch his skin.
Clang!
The sword was knocked aside with brutal force, spinning away and embedding itself into the earth a short distance away.
Yan Ling gasped, stumbling forward, only to be yanked back violently by the chains.
Wei Lifeng's voice dropped, cold and lethal.
"Such eagerness to be a martyr...?," he said quietly, "Try again, and I'll order the execution of every captured Shen Qi soldier, right after you."
Yan Ling froze.
"And your king," Wei Lifeng added calmly. "Shen Long, will be next."
The world went silent.
Yan Ling's breath shattered in his chest.
"…You—!" he whispered hoarsely but couldn't utter a single word from his seething lips.
Wei Lifeng crouched down in front of him.
Lowered himself to the same level as the severely injured general, his armor creaking softly.
Only now, being so close, did Wei Lifeng truly look at him.
Yan Ling's long black hair had come loose, falling wild and untamed around his shoulder, silky strands clinging to sweat and blood-dampened skin. His complexion, though pale from blood loss, carried a natural warmth, his skin tanned and even-toned, hardened by years beneath the sun.
His body was tall and lean, honed by war, yet stripped of its usual authority as he knelt in chains, yet majestic.
But it was his face that held Wei Lifeng's attention.
Especially, those eyes of his.
Hypnotic, captivating, siren eyes which seems inviting in shape, yet burning with immeasurable hatred and defiance.
Lips full, pressed tight as fury and humiliation warred within him. With slow, defeated and almost persuading voice, Yan Ling asked,
"What else do you want, haven't you already won?"
His voice cracked across the battlefield.
"Throne, people, nation...you have claimed it all. Your victory is complete. Your name will be remembered as one of the great general in the history—so do me a favour. Kindly let me die in peace. This general will forever be grateful to you, in the underworld."
For a moment, Wei Lifeng only stared at him.
Then, without a second thought, he laughed.
A low, amused sound, sharp enough to break all the illusion of hope that Yan Ling carried in his heart just now.
"How interesting," he murmured. "Now that you have been defeated, you're seeking freedom."
He leaned closer, eyes darkening as they met Yan Ling's directly.
"But tell me, General… how could I possibly grant you that so easily?"
Yan Ling's breath hitched.
"I don't want you merely as a prisoner of war," Wei Lifeng continued with a voice smooth and deliberate.
"Neither as a defeated general nor as someone I wish to serve serve under me for the country."
His gaze swept slowly over Yan Ling—from his bowed head to the chains binding him, lingering with deliberate intent.
"What I actually want is to keep you," Wei Lifeng said softly, "as my warprize."
Yan Ling's eyes widened.
"A prize worth fighting for," Wei Lifeng added, almost thoughtfully. "A prize worth winning, a souvenir of my greatest victory. And I deserve to cherish it as long as I want."
Wei Lifeng watched with a deep satisfaction as the hatred in the general eyes flicked to fear for a while before he masked it well.
.
.
.
To be continued...